


Ode on a Grecian Urn

by JaneHudson



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, Character Death, Chivalry, F/M, Sadness, it's meant to be tragic and romantic and stuff, just because life is sad doesn't mean it isn't a song, or an actual prediction for how the series will go, projecting my issues into fic, this is not meant to be a rigorous exploration of canon questions, tragic ending, tw: character death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-27
Updated: 2019-01-27
Packaged: 2019-10-17 08:23:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17556776
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JaneHudson/pseuds/JaneHudson
Summary: If Sansa was being honest with herself, she would have been disappointed in Lord Petyr Baelish if he hadn’t shown up at the gates of Winterfell, even after he had been executed in the plain sight of an assembly of lords, bearing precious gifts and a smirk that was more self-satisfied than usual.Lord Baelish has cheated death and brought precious dragon-glass to Winterfell. The ensuing battle gives him a chance to be a hero to his beloved Sansa.





	Ode on a Grecian Urn

If Sansa was being honest with herself, she would have been disappointed in Lord Petyr Baelish if he _hadn’t_ shown up at the gates of Winterfell, even after he had been executed in the plain sight of an assembly of lords, bearing precious gifts and a smirk that was more self-satisfied than usual.

She’d told Arya and Bran that tricking Littlefinger shouldn’t have been so easy. That it was like he’d wanted them to ‘win.’ But had they listened?

She felt vindicated when Petyr came bearing hope in the form of a horde of dragon-glass blades, gods only knew how he came by them. Even Arya agreed it would be unseemly to kill him again. But her sister and Bran were not happy about it. And they were not happy that Sansa was not as unhappy about Lord Baelish’s return as they felt she ought to be.

Oh, she tried, of course; she owed it to her parents, after all. But, even though she haughtily ignored his attempts to converse with her in public, she committed every last one of his wickedly witty remarks to memory so she could replay them in her mind when she was alone. Everyone else was so deadly serious and dull. She was annoyed that Lord Baelish saw right through her, not because she didn’t want him to know, but because it reminded her that her skills were not fully developed. Her wandering eyes betrayed her. He’d catch her looking at him, hold her gaze, and then turn his lips ever so slightly upward.

Sansa was pleased that everyone else around her was too oblivious to notice. 

*

Sansa didn’t know why she thought a battle with the Night King and his army would be less terrifying than the Battle of Blackwater. How could she have been foolish enough to think that learning how to be more manipulative or how to bluff men into her service could have prepared her for this? 

At least she wasn’t the only one who had started to run. Everywhere was chaos. She had no idea if either side was winning or losing. All she knew is that she was no use in a battle, and so she had started running. Her feet had instinctually carried her to the godswood. 

Where the Night King had been waiting.

She tried to swerve away, but, even though it was her home and her godswood, she was no match. She heard a familiar ringing noise—he had drawn his sword—and she heard it whistle on the air. And then she was on the ground. 

She didn’t feel it at first, but the pain quickly ripped through her side. He’d gotten her. Badly, by the look of it. He stood above her, looking at her with those awful, unnatural eyes.

She took a deep breath. The death stroke was coming. She heard the whistle on the air. But then there was an odd thud, like the sound of a rock, and a familiar voice rang out:

“Sansa, run!” 

_Petyr._

She opened her eyes. The Night King had turned around. _Had Petyr thrown a rock at him?_ Sansa couldn’t think straight, and just stumbled toward the heart tree. 

Petyr was wildly swinging what appeared to be an old sword from the courtyard. It would have been funny if the situation hadn’t been so dire. He was truly dreadful; the Arya who had practiced alongside Robb and Jon as a little girl could have bested him.

“My knight,” Sansa whispered. She sighed heavily, unable to tear her eyes away from the inevitable.

At least the Night King didn’t toy with overmatched prey. He used his first good chance to slice Petyr across the chest. Sansa grimaced and turned away at the sound of his strangled cry. She opened her eyes again to see that Petyr had staggered to his feet—the ridiculous fool!—as the Night King just laughed.

Petyr tried to thrust at him, but the Night King easily turned his blade away as Petyr staggered into him. Sansa thought it was the most pitiable thing she’d ever seen. 

Until she looked at his weak hand. Sansa gasped. He had a dragon-glass dagger concealed there, and the gloating, arrogant Night King had left him an opportunity for a clean stroke.

 _Petyr Baelish never wastes a good opportunity,_ thought Sansa, as the small, slender man brought the dagger home. There was something very funny to her about the positively human look of confusion on the Night King’s face.

Sansa didn’t have to see Lord Baelish’s face to know that he was smirking.

He’d done it. Petyr Baelish, known to the world as Littlefinger, a man of no knightly talent or accomplishment whatsoever, had just slain the Night King. It was perhaps the most absurd and appalling and amusing thing that could have possibly happened.

Sansa wanted to laugh, but she couldn’t. Petyr’s great triumph would cost him his life. The mark the Night King had left on him was even deeper and just as long as the mark he already bore. He tried to walk toward her, but collapsed in the snow, only a few feet away.

Sansa drug herself over to him. It wasn’t so bad. Snow in her wound helped dull the pain.

“Run, my lady,” he said. “I won’t survive this.”

“I won’t leave you here to die alone.”

“Please, Sansa.” He reached up for her face. “I can’t have you hurt. Run, Sweetling. Let me die knowing you’re safe.”

“I go nowhere. There is no one else here. How can I leave you? You’ve saved us all.”

“I saved you,” he said, in a voice Sansa scarcely recognized, a voice that was light and full of something that nearly sounded like happiness.

Sansa knew she had to keep him talking and looking at her. She could not let him look down, could not let him see the fatal gash in her side, could not let him know that he’d been too late.

“I wish you weren’t leaving me again,” she said, proudly lying through her teeth.

Petyr attempted to apologize to her, but he was bleeding out and making little sense. Sansa was frightened when she realized that, although her mind was still sharp, her body wasn’t responding like it should. It was so slow and heavy. She nearly couldn’t get an arm around him.

“Petyr, I’m going to sing songs about you so everyone knows that you saved us all.” Sansa’s voice faltered. The gash in her side was hurting. _Why did it hurt?_ Someone once told her the pain eventually dulled away just before you died. _Was that all lies too?_

Sansa looked at Petyr’s face and tried to smile. She had never seen a human being look happier. His eyes even looked greener to her, like springtime had bloomed in them and driven winter’s grey away. He was dying for her and that made him the happiest man on earth.

She summoned everything she had left to force her mouth open, to keep on talking. “Your own songs, sweet Lord Baelish. Songs where you’ll live forever. With me by your side.”

He looked at her and Sansa was sure that no hero had ever looked upon his beloved with such joy. “My lady, my love…” They were the last intelligible words he said.

“Petyr,” said Sansa, as she leaned in toward him. _Yes, let it end for us like this. Let it end with a kiss._  

* 

It wasn’t long before Brienne found them: entwined, dusted with fresh snow, eyes locked in what was now an unending gaze, lips achingly close, but not quite touching.

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. I saw one of those "What if Baelish isn't really dead" videos on YouTube and got to thinking.  
> 2\. I know there is some speculation that the Night King is invulnerable to dragon-glass, but as that does not appear to be 100% confirmed, I choose to ignore that speculation.
> 
> And, just in case anyone's wondering about the title...
> 
> "Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss,  
> Though winning near the goal yet, do not grieve;  
> She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss,  
> For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair!"
> 
> (https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/44477/ode-on-a-grecian-urn)


End file.
